by David Brin
Ah, then she still lives. The intensity of my relief surprises me … along with unexpected levels of concern that her chances remain slim.
How did this happen?
After hurried consultations, we conclude that an independent rogue fighting unit has attacked my favorite human. Hundreds of the brutal things abandoned their old loyalties, long ago, in order to join one or another of the crystalline clans. Moronic battle machines, hobbling about the Inner Edge with ancient war damage, their spasm of violence a few years ago only served to alert and antagonize the humans, putting them on guard.
We should have waged a campaign to eradicate the foul remnants, long ago.
Only matters aren’t so simple. Not every killer went rogue. Many are still owned and operated by bigger probes like Awaiter and Greeter, despite our treaty to disarm.
I kept some of my own, buried in reserve.
Are any of my loyal hunters near enough to aid Tor Povlov? If so, would I dare order it done? What strange temptation! To intervene. Reveal hidden powers, for a mayfly? Perhaps the lonely wait—with beings like Greeter my sole company—has driven me unstable.
I am saved from cognitive dissonance by a swift calculation. None of my remotes are close enough to help. Yet, might one assist some other way?
Meanwhile—in parallel—another thought occurs to me. Can I be certain Tor was ambushed by a loner? As I recall, the ancient war machines sometimes operated in pairs or triples.
Worse—might this have been planned by one of us major probes? By a fellow survivor? One who shared my lonely exile for almost seventy million Earth years? Without even trying hard, I can come up with a dozen possible motives that might tempt Sojourner, or Explorer, or Trader … though certainly not Awaiter.
I am warming up my repair and battle units. In truth, I began doing so (gradually and in secret) almost a human-century ago, when radio waves began pouring from the silent third planet. Preparation seemed prudent.
Now perhaps I had better—as an Earthling might say—crank it up.
76.
TIMING IS EVERYTHING
Our fate will turn on split seconds, she thought.
Unless the damn FACR has cracked our encryption and knows what we’re about to do. Or unless there’s more than one of the horrid things! In which case, we’re torqued.
Breathing tension in her steamy life support suit-capsule, she watched the first of several timers count down and reach zero—then start upward again. One. Two. Three. Four.…
Warren is starting to move. In her mind’s eye, Tor pictured the vessel’s engines lighting up, blasting toward a fateful emergence from the asteroid’s protective bulk. The tip of its nose should appear in one hundred and six seconds.
Before working out this plan, she had raced through dozens of scenarios. All the viable ones started this way, with her ship firing-up to come around. After all, what if the FACR really was too afraid to fire at the Warren Kimbel? Why not find out, right at the start? Easiest solution. Let the ship come to fetch Tor and Gavin. Then go FACR-hunting.
For some reason, Tor felt certain things wouldn’t go that way. Life was seldom so easy.
The new count reached forty-six. So, in exactly one minute the FACR would spot Warren’s prow emerging from behind the roid’s protecting bulk.…
When thirty seconds remained, Tor uttered a command:
“Drones M and P, go!”
They belonged to Gavin, a hundred meters beyond the crater’s rim. Soon, a pair of tiny glimmers rose above that horizon. Tor’s percept portrayed two loyal little robots firing jets, lancing skyward on a suicidal course—straight toward the jumble of rocks and pebbles where a killer machine lurked.
They’re harmless, but will the FACR know that?
Ten seconds after those two launched, she spoke again.
“Drones R and K, come now!”
With parameters already programmed, those two started from opposite directions, jetting toward her across a jumble of twisted girders. Now fate would turn on the foe’s decision.
Which group will you go after first? Those rushing toward you, or those coming to rescue me? Or none?
“Drones D and F, now!” Those were two more of Gavin’s, sent to follow the first pair, hurtling toward the sandbar-cloud where the enemy hid, leaving her partner almost alone. That couldn’t be helped. And Warren’s nose would be visible in five … four …
In purely empty space, lasers can be hard to detect. But Gavin had spent the last half hour using his remaining hand to toss fists of asteroidal dust into the blackness overhead, as hard as he could without exposing himself. (A side benefit: burrowing a deeper shelter.) The expanding particle cloud was still essentially hard vacuum—
—but when the kill beam lanced through that sparse haze, it scattered a trail of betraying blue-green twinkles … as it sliced drone P in half, igniting a gaudy fireball of spilled hydrazine fuel.
Tor blinked in shock, before remembering to start a fresh timer … as drone M was cloven also! Without exploding, this time. She fought down fear in order to concentrate.
So. It acted first to protect itself. Only now—
She turned to face drone R, speeding toward her above the jumble of ruined alien probe-ships. The little robot carried a flat, armorlike plate, salvaged from the junk pile, now held up as a shield between it and the FACR.
“Gavin did you get a fix on—”
A searing needle of blue-green struck the plate, spewing gouts of superheated metal. The drone kept coming, hurrying to Tor.…
“Now I have!” her partner shouted. “Got the bastard localized down to a couple of meters. You know, I’ll bet it thinks I’m dead. Doesn’t know I’m a—”
The FACR’s beam wandered a quick spiral. Then, whether by expert-targeting or a lucky shot, it sliced off one of the little drone’s gripper-hands. The protective plate twisted one way, the drone another. Imbalanced, it desperately compensated, trying to reach Tor—till it crashed into a jutting piece of ancient construction crane. The plate spun off, caroming amid the girders, coming to rest just out of Tor’s reach.
The robot tumbled to a halt, shuddered, and died, with another hole drilled neatly through its brain case.
Damn. The sonovabitch is good! And its refire rate is faster than any weapon built by humans.
Aware that nineteen seconds had passed since the first laser bolt was fired, she spun to look at drone K, jetting toward her from the opposite side, clutching another slab of makeshift, ill-fitting armor. Again, harsh light and molten splatters spewed from wherever the FACR’s beam touched metal, hunting for a vulnerable spot. In moments—
The lance of bitter light vanished—with suddenness that left Tor blinking. As her optics struggled to adapt, the drone kept coming toward her, apparently undamaged.
Which must mean—
“I am now under attack, Captain Povlov. The good news is that your distractions bought me half a minute. The bad news, alas? The Faction-Allied Competition Remover does not appear to be afraid of me.”
The latest generation of ai had an irksome habit of turning verbose, even garrulous, at times of stress. No one knew why.
“I have pinged a radar pulse at the site Gavin provided. The return echo was strong down to half a centimeter. In response, the FACR burned off my main antenna and a surrounding patch of hull. Adjacent chambers are no longer air tight.
“I am rotating my primary weapon to aim upon the enemy. But at his current rate of refire, he will be able to blast my laser from the side before I can aim it to shoot.”
Drone K, burdened with the awkward metal plate, had trouble slowing down. Tor was forced to duck with a shout, as it collided with the girder protecting her. Acting quickly, before it could spin away, she darted out a hand to clutch the thick disc. Her prosthetic fingers grabbed so hard it hurt and Tor’s wrist ached from the twisting strain.
That’s nothing compared to getting a whole arm sliced off, she thought, having to expose the limb for several s
econds. But the enemy was occupied elsewhere.
Thanks, Warren, she thought, when everything was safely behind the girder. Tor felt pangs over yet another sacrifice on her behalf, by someone bearing that name.
Now, just hold out till it’s my turn.
The chunk of metal was only a makeshift “shield.” Under orders, drone K had gone down to the asteroid’s catacombs, in order to retrieve part of a shattered airlock hatch—one of many that once protected the mysterious habitat zone and among the few objects at hand that might block the kill-beam for a few seconds. Maybe. If she managed to keep it turned right, between her and the FACR’s deadly gaze.
Things might have been simpler in Earth gravity. Just jump away from the girder while holding up the shield for a couple of ticks—long enough to plummet to safety, worrying only about the landing. Here, gravity was a tepid friend, weaker than a mouse. Falling would take much too long.
“Tor. The foe has been expertly burning my instrumentalities, as each one comes into view. Half of my forward compartments are now holed. My primary weapon will be exposed to side-attack for at least fifteen seconds before it can shoot back. That window will commence in forty-two seconds … mark.”
Cursing her slowness behind the girder’s narrow protection, Tor helped drone K turn and line itself upside down, with jets pointing skyward, still clutching the rim of the airlock cover with both manipulator clamps.
There were serious flaws to this plan. The worst drawback declared itself in stark, sudden illumination from somewhere high above. A hot light, rich and reddish—not anything like the laser’s icy blue—burst across the crater, bathing dead starships in the flicker-colors of flame.
That must be drone D, or drone F—or both—exploding before they could reach the FACR. It had to turn and deal with them, at last, in case they carried bombs. Well, at least their sacrifice bought Warren a brief respite. Too bad the distraction couldn’t be better timed.
Is that mother’s weapon ever gonna run out of laser-juice?
Tor felt intensely aware of drone K’s hydrazine tanks, too close above her back as she crouched. She had no wish to experience incineration a second time. In spite of all her cyborg augmentations, Tor tasted the same bile flavors of dread that her ancestors knew when they confronted lions on the veldt, or pictured dragons in the night. Her body suffered waves of weakness.
But battle makes no allowance for fear. It was time.
With the airlock plate poised above her, and the downward-facing drone on top of that, Tor’s legs flexed … then shoved hard against the metal strut, her refuge for the last hour. Drifting backward, just before leaving the girder’s shadow, Tor yanked all her limbs into a fetal tuck, clinging to the center of the hatch as faithful little drone K ignited all engines to rocket Tor downward, toward safety amid the jumbled wreckage below. Still so very slowly.
Did the FACR hesitate?
Tor and Gavin had to be the highest priority targets. Given what happened earlier, nothing else made logical sense. On the other hand, for the foe to let up on Warren could be a lethal mistake …
Come on. Pay attention to me!
After five whole seconds, the war machine’s indecision ended in a blaze of blue-actinic brightness that erupted just above Tor’s head, penetrating drone K like tissue paper. The little robot convulsed—and Tor worried.
If it took out the brain …
In that case, the robot might keep holding on to the plate, leaving its fuel tanks exposed—in effect a bomb, ready to be ignited.
The worker machine’s long arms pulsed like a spasm, shoving itself away from the armor shield—as planned. And having pushed Tor in the direction of safety, drone K swiveled to jet the other way. Thanks, she thought, toward her last glimpse of the loyal machine. And now the enemy had three targets to choose from.
Shoot at me.
Shoot at Warren.
Or try using the drone to blow me to smither—
The world turned orange-red—a harsh, fury-filled light, much closer than before. Explosive brightness swept past the airlock hatch on all sides, surrounding Tor, who cowered in a narrow, cylindrical shadow.
Good-bye, drone K.
Her brain could only manage that one thought before the shockwave hit, shuddering the hatch so hard that her hand-grip almost failed. Both legs flung out as her oblong shield began to spin.
That had been the enemy’s obvious tactic to get at Tor. This new rotation would bring her body into the FACR’s sights, several agonizing instants before she reached safety.
Time to bail.
Tor gathered her legs, bracing them against the hatch plate.
“Tor Povlov, my weapon is now emerging into view. The foe must be distracted for fifteen seconds.”
Too long. Even if she got the FACR to focus on her, that interval amounted to three shots, at the rate the damn thing could refire.
But she had to try! While the plate still shielded her, Tor kicked hard, in a semirandom direction. If the enemy needed even a fraction of an extra moment to spot her, beyond the still glowing explosion-plume.…
The pit, filled with craggy debris, was looming faster now. But Tor fought the instinct to turn and brace for impact. Instead, she twisted her legs skyward, as another voice cried out.
“I’m coming, Tor!”
Gasping from exertion, she somehow found the breath to grunt.
“Gavin … don’t…”
The armor shield had spun away. Beyond the fading warmth and sparkle of drone K’s glowing remnants, she now glimpsed a vast spray of stars … and Tor knew she shouldn’t look at them. With a heave, she brought up both knees, just in time.
“Gavin … Stay where you—”
Pain erupted along the entire length of her left leg, then cut off before she could start an agonized cry. The limb was simply gone. By raw force of will, Tor brought the other one around, placing it between her body and lethal violence. And almost instantly, fresh agony attacked that leg—
—then stopped as something-or-somebody barged in to the rescue! A dark silhouette thrust itself between Tor and her tormentor, taking the laser’s brunt. For one instant of brain-dazzled shock, she saw a hero, huge and fearless, armored and armed with a jagged sword, appear to leap in, parrying the foe’s bitter lance, deflecting it away from her with no more than a blithe shrug of molten sparks.
“Ten seconds,” Warren announced. Blatantly lying. An hour must have passed, since the ship last spoke.
The laser stopped hunting for Tor. In sudden darkness, her helmet-percept remapped the dim surroundings.
I’m falling through the junk pile. Her savior, she now realized, had been some prehistoric construction derrick, blocking the laser as she fell past. And soon, the onrushing pit bottom would smack her, very hard.
Tor knew she ought to be checking diagnostics, verifying that emergency seals were holding after the loss of her legs. My very expensive legs … Tor quashed hysterical thoughts. She ought to be twisting to brace for impact, as well as possible.
But energy and volition were gone. Used up. She could only stare skyward—
—as the deadly FACR lashed out again from its perch among some jumbled orbiting rocks—a point in the sky that was now out of Tor’s view. Denied access to her, the predatory machine was seeking other prey. Dusty scatter-glints revealed its deadly light-spear, hunting beyond the crater’s rim … and soon Tor’s audio delivered a sharp cry of shocked dismay.
Oh Gavin. You were too late … and too early.
Her percept-clock told the awful truth. With a five-second recharge rate, the foe would have plenty of time to finish off Gavin and then turn back to Warren, taking out the ship’s primary weapon before it could—
Tor blinked. Was vision failing? The number of sparkle-trails up there seemed to double, then double again … and again! Where there had been one fierce ray, now eight or nine narrow needles crossed the heavens, from left to right, in perfect parallel—even as the first one abruptly vanished.
From her falling vantage point, now much deeper in the apparently bottomless pit, she saw eight rapiers of ferocity strike the sky region where her enemy had lurked and launched its ambush. Now each of those incoming rays wandered through a spiral hunt-pattern, vaporizing sand … rock … and possibly some chunk of bright metal …
Tor choked out a single name. A hoarse cry of jubilation.
“Ibn Battuta!”
Six minutes light-turnaround time. An impossible obstacle to split-second battle coordination. Any actual damage to the FACR would be accidental. But with luck, the surprise and distraction would be just enough to let—
Another fierce harpoon of light entered from Tor’s right. A bolt of vengeance, aimed with precision and negligible delay.
Warren!
Followed by a nova—a new sun—bursting overhead to light the night.
That brief, white-hot illumination gave Tor a sideways glimpse of the asteroid’s jagged cavity, apparently not bottomless after all, converging around and reaching up to swat her, even as she laughed in bitter triumph.
“Take that, you mother—”
THE LONELY SKY
Lurker Challenge Number Five
Perhaps you have a policy of noninterference for a different reason … in order to spare us—and our culture—from some harm that might come from contact. Possibly erosion of our sense of free will? Or belief in our high culture? Do you fret about us getting an inferiority complex or other psychic damage? Are there particular types of knowledge we’re “not ready to handle”?
* * *
Cautionary lessons come from the sad history of “contact” on Earth, when varied human cultures met for the first time. Often, the one with lower tech sophistication suffered, even collapsed. Does that also happen out there when planet-civilizations meet? Do sad experience and mercy motivate your reluctance to speak?
Indeed, if your decision is backed by very strong proof, then thanks.
Yet—are you sure? Can you be certain we’re so fragile and not an exception? (There were some exceptions, in Earthly first contacts.) Again, might you be rationalizing a decision that you made for other reasons?